


Tired

by Emptynarration



Category: Youtube RPF, Youtube egos
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Depression, Injury, Knives, Mental Breakdown, References to Depression, Sad, Sad Host, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Serious Injuries, Short, Short One Shot, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, aka all of this is basically me, author projecting onto host, implied depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-20 21:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emptynarration/pseuds/Emptynarration
Summary: The Host is sad.You may say, depressed even.Here's a lot of little writings of the Host being a poor, sad, and tired bean.





	1. Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Host is tired.

He was tired.

Sitting in the meeting room, words washing over him like sand in a breeze. Not leaving an impression, not leaving a trace of them on him as he sat there, arms folded on the table, lips ever moving in quiet words no one truly listened to.

He was tired.

Late in the night, in his recording room. The bulky headphones on his head, enveloping his ears and canceling out noises coming from outside. The microphone on the table in front of him, the pop-filter small but effective. A small mix-board, together with the rest of his equipment.  
Ever talking, picking out realities to talk about, manipulate people who were terrible and never brought to justice.  
He doesn’t feel anything as he narrates, wording out deaths like a book, apathetic like he wasn’t talking to anyone, like he didn’t feel.

He was tired.

Curled up in bed, hiding from the world. Bandages soaked in blood, mind swimming with possibilities and other realities, choices he didn’t make, choices he made, choices of others and things and the world. As if it was written down what happened, every disaster scripted, set in stone and unchangeable.   
It was a lot, his single humane mind unable to comprehend everything. He let it wash over him, flow through his mind like a river, never ending and never stopping.

He was tired.

He couldn’t bring himself to feel. It was too much.   
He didn’t care.  
He didn’t find the energy in himself to care anymore. It was all too much for him, too many words, too many feelings, to many choices and realities.

Sometimes, he was paralysed by the choices.  
Never knowing which one was right, never knowing what to do or what to pick. Letting it all happen without him, letting the world take a turn without him.

Sometimes, he felt nothing.  
Infinite amounts of feelings and choices, infinite pain and happiness, sadness and anger, insanity and kindness. Never the right option, never the wrong option either.

Sometimes, he was tired.

He was so, so tired.


	2. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He deserves this, he thinks.

He took a deep breath.

Grabbing the knife, his knuckles white around it. His hand flat on the table top.  
He takes a deep breath, and he rammed it through the middle of his hand, and a choked scream left his lips, more like a gasp than anything. The knife embedded into the desk below his hand, stuck, hurting, reminding him that he could still feel. That there were still things to feel. Still pain.

His head drops on the desk, his uninjured hand buried into his hair, and a deep, shaky breath leaves him.

_He deserves this_, he thinks.  
He deserves the pain, and the suffering, that it all brought.

Blood was soaking into the bandages wrapped tightly around his eyes. A broken sob passed his lips, and his fingers twitched, wanting to curl into a fist. Stuck in place with a knife through his hand. It hurt, it shook him through his core, and blood was pooling beneath his hand, turning his palm warm, red, and sticky.

_He deserves this_, he reminds himself.  
The pain, and the suffering, that it all brought.

It would take hours, days perhaps, for this pain to end. For this pain of his hand, reminding him that he was alive, that he was suffering, that he was fighting a losing battle. That he would rather give up and leave, that he'd rather fade than fight through this misery.

But the pain would never end.  
The pain should never end.

He wanted friends. He should talk to people. He wanted to be cared about. He should talk to people. He wanted the loneliness to end. He should talk to people.  
He didn't want to be jealous. He didn't want to believe everyone was better than him, was more loved than him, was more cared about than him, was preferred over him. He didn't want to believe that he was alone, that no one cared, that he could fade and stop his existence entirely, and no one would care.

But he believed it.

_He deserves this_, he knows.  
This pain, and the suffering, that he all brought.

He's a terrible person. A terrible being. He was selfish, self-obsessed, attention-seeking and begging for compliments, begging for praise, begging for a good word.  
He knew, no one would care. No one would ask about his injuries, no one give him a second glance at new bloody bandages adorning him. No one would give a single worry his way.

_He deserves this_, he reminds himself.  
The pain, and the suffering, that it all brought.


	3. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And again,  
And again,  
And again.

The mirror screams at him, blood dripping from his cheeks, and his fist flies against the glass, shattering it upon impact. His chest is heaving, shards beging digging into his skin, and he pulls his fist back. Fueled, angry, frustrated, emotional, he reels his hand back again and his fist connects with the mirror again, sending more sharp splinters into his hand, making it bleed, but he doesn't care.  
He punches it again,

And again,

And again.

Until he falls to his knees, hands burying into his hands, screaming. His hand bleeding, the shards sharp pains. His knees dug into the glass on the ground, cutting through his pants, and he sobbed. Shoulders shaking, whole body trembling, red dripping from his cheeks, dripping to the ground and scattering upon impact. He couldn't think, everything hurt, and he reached for a shard on the ground, gripping it tightly into his fist. He felt it cutting into his palm, blood quickly running along the glass and dripping down from the tip. He yanks back the sleeve on his arm, and he slashes the shard over the skin.  
He cuts it again,

And again,

And again.

Until the shard is as red as if it were stained, as if it had never been reflecting, never just a piece of a mirror. Until he let it drop from his hand, clinking once it connects with the ground, with the other shards, and a sob broke from his throat, blood running down his face like rubies, falling upon his clothes and coloring them red. He falls backwards, sitting on the ground, scrambling back from the mirror, back from the blood, back from the pain. Until his back hit a bookshelf, and his body shook with sobs, shaking and trembling. And he raises his hands, red with blood and stuck with shards, and his fingers slide underneath the deep red bandages.  
He scratches at his sockets again,

And again,

And again.

Until he couldn't tell what pain came from his body and what from his mind. Until he began to feel numb, and his body cold. Until his coat was sticking to him from the blood soaking into it. Until his bandages were sliding down his face from the weight, and more and more blood dripped from his face, red, red red. He sobbed, desperate for it to end, desperate for it to stop hurting. Welcoming the darkness, welcoming the cold, welcoming the end of his suffering. Until someone found him, and would stop it, would safe him. Never left alone, never left to die, never alone.

But this wouldn't be the last time.

He would try it again,

And again,

And again.


	4. People Pleaser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s a people pleaser.

He’s a people pleaser.

No matter how unhealthy it was, he didn’t care. He wanted to be liked. He wanted to be needed. He didn’t want to be forgotten, he didn’t want to be left behind, he didn’t want to be replaceable.  
He’d rather do whatever he could to please someone else to be liked, to be accepted, no matter what it might be.

Knowing what everyone wanted was making it easy. Picking the correct choices, picking the correct answers, picking whatever would please another person. Getting taken advantage of, being used, anything to make them happy.

And still, he felt like a burden. At least, so it seemed.  
Wasn’t he everything they wanted?

Maybe if he tried a little harder, it will be okay. One day.  
He’d do anything, dividing himself into little pieces, one perfect for anyone, mixing and changing and everything muddling together into one. It hurt, he felt nauseous, but what could he do?   
He needed to be liked.  
He needed to be needed.

He wasn’t sure what to be anymore. This or that? Then or now? Here or there?  
What was right, and what wasn’t? He felt sick, his head hurt, it was swimming, his chest ached and he felt like screaming, but had no voice to do it. No ears to listen to it.

All he wanted was some validation.  
_You’ve done good._  
_I like what you’ve done._  
_Thank you so much._  
_I’m glad you’re here._  
But what could he expect? What could he ask for? 

How should he act?

Too many possibilities, everyone liked something else, he didn’t know what to be. Hindering his likeability. He would do anything, everything, whatever he was asked to do, whatever he was told to be.

Who was he?  
Would they like him more without “him”?

Maybe he’d finally be enough, then. Maybe, they wouldn’t need anything else, then.  
He didn’t know who he was supposed to be anymore, so he’d make himself with any thought of anyone he meets.

Wasn’t he everything they wanted? 


	5. Deep breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He took another deep breath, releasing it slowly.

He sat quietly in the library, in his favorite armchair.

He had a plushie on his lap, holding it tightly against himself. He wasn’t doing anything, really, not knowing what to do. He didn’t feel like doing anything, while also being incredibly bored. 

He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He was tired, but he was _always_ tired. Sleeping didn’t help that tiredness, so he could just as well stay awake. Sleeping constantly would just make everything worse. He didn’t feel well when he laid in bed and had absolutely nothing to do.  
Not hat sitting in the library doing nothing was any better. He didn’t have the motivation to read anything, not feeling like he had enough concentration to remember everything, nor to actually pay attention to anything he could start reading.

He held the soft plush against himself, enjoying the gentle squish it gave, and the extreme softness of the fabric it was made out of. He was pretty sure it was a donkey, though he didn’t much mind whatever. He just enjoyed how soft it was, and how nice it was to squeeze.

It didn’t make him feel better though. He was still sad, still tired, and still had no motivation whatsoever to do anything. He took another deep breath, burying his face into his donkey.

He knew no one had time. He wasn’t friends with anyone anyways, so it wasn’t like he could just go ahead and bother anyone. And who wanted to hang out with someone like him anyways?  
He hugged his donkey tighter, sighing again.

This would pass. He knew it would. He’d feel better again sooner rather than later, though it could still take the whole day. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel better tomorrow. He just hoped he would.

He took another deep breath, releasing it slowly.


	6. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please care...

He was dizzy.

Swaying where he stood, wanting to shake his head while also not wanting to make himself even more unsteady on his feet.

Taking a deep breath, his back hit the wall, and he slid down. He was met with the wetness that had already gathered there, the red liquid having pooled beneath him already. The sleeves of his coat didn’t even look beige anymore, but instead drenched in red.

Dripping.

More blood dripped from his cheeks, the bandages around his eyes fully drenched in red, sitting heavy on the bridge of his nose.

Feeling the fabric of his shirt, of his coat, press against his arms burned. It hurt, and he relished in the pain. In feeling something. Anything but the emptiness filling his head.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Soft sobs broke free from his chest, sitting in a small pool of his own blood, all alone. He’s always been alone, afraid of talking to people, afraid of being secretly hated by everyone around him.  
He deserved to the pain he brought upon himself, cutting and slashing at his arms until he couldn’t see anything anymore but blood, dripping from his arms, dripping down his fingers.

He could barely keep his thoughts straight.

What did it matter?

What did it matter if he didn’t exist anymore?

What did it matter if he died here, cold and alone, in his little library?

No one would care, would they?

He would love to find out. Just sit here, blood gathering beneath him slowly, no one ever entering his little haven. Why would they? The library had been unused before, it had been covered in dust when he had first stepped into it.

No one would think it weird if he didn’t show up for a few days, would they? It’s not like he hasn’t locked himself away before to work and work and work.  
Who would even think something had happened?  
Would anyone think to check on him?

He didn’t think so.

No one ever seemed to care about him, after all.

Why would they start now, suddenly?

He sobbed softly to himself, curling up, uncaring about the blood, crying heavy drops of bloody tears. 

He hoped this would end soon.


	7. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustration building, until it explodes

Author stabbed the knife again and again and again, anger and hate and frustrations fueling him, ramming the knife through his hand over and over and over, making blood spatter and fly, pain erupting from his hand, breaking the delicate bones with the force of how hard he stabbed the knife into his hand.

He growled, snarled, tears hot in his eyes. He hated this, it was so fucking frustrating, he was so _fucking angry_, he had to hurt, he had to get his anger out somehow, and stabbing was all he could do, plunging the knife through his hand repeatedly, until he couldn’t see it anymore, until blood covered his hand, the desk beneath it, staining the knife a deep wet red.

“Fucking BULLSHIT!”, he screamed, angry, ramming the knife so hard through his hand it got stuck in the wood of his desk. He ripped it out, crying out in frustration, his hand spasming from the pain and torn open skin.  
“Fucking stupid SHIT! FUCK!”, he screamed, balling his hands into fists and slamming them onto his desk, making it rattle, shaking under it, blood spraying off of where he hit the blood-pool. His hand hurt like a bitch, it was dizzying, but it wasn’t _enough_, and he _hated it_, and he was so _fucking frustrated_.

Angry tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he kept slamming his fists down onto the desk, over and over, until he could feel nothing but pain, until his hands hurt from how hard he hit his desk. He grabbed the knife in his shaking and bloody hand, feeling the hole he had torn into it with his knife scream, every nerve-end on fire, but he didn’t care, laying his other hand flat onto his desk and plunging the knife into it, until he had broken the bones from it, until he had his hand cut open and he couldn’t feel anything but pain anymore.

He screamed, frustrated, hating everything, hating himself, hating the world. He screamed, until his throat was hoarse, until he couldn’t breathe anymore, until his head was swimming and he felt dizzy from the pain of his hands.  
He grabbed his pen, hand twitching and hurting and on fire -and he wanted to put his hand into a flame, watch it burn, smell his flesh getting cooked and burn and get black, until he could see the broken bones, could see the pain, could see everything that had gone wrong burning away.

His writing was obscured by blood as he scribbled his words, growling deep in his chest as his broken bones mended and realigned, fusing back together. The holes stayed, bleeding, as his palms burned, getting red, blisters popping up beneath the blood, and he gripped the pen tighter, until the pain made him feel faint, until he couldn’t read the words he had written anymore because of the blood.


	8. Deflating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snuffing it out like a flame

Host was flapping his hands excitedly, nearly bouncing where he stood, as he talked excitedly about a story he was making up. He was rarely so excited, and he would only be reminded as to why.

When the other ego just responded with “Hm”, “Mh-hm”, “Is that so”, “How interesting”, and “Oh”.

Host deflated slowly, wringing his hands together instead, to stop his excitement to bubble over like it had been. His excited bright words trailing off into mumbles.  
The other ego didn’t even seem to care. Giving Host an apathetic goodbye when Host mumbled he had to go.

He quickly turned, chewing on his lip, barely mumbling his narrations for his Sight.

Why had he thought someone would care about the things he made?

Why had he believed someone wanted to listen to _him_, of all people. Ramble on and on about some stupid fictional thing.

His steps hurried through the halls, trying to get back to his room as quickly as he possibly could. He should’ve known no one would be interested in his thoughts, his ideas, his creations. He should’ve thought of that. No one ever cared to ask him about the things he was doing.   
Maybe his ideas weren’t all that creative. Maybe he was just that boring. Maybe, simply, no one cared about him.

His steps faltered when he heard people talking in the living room. He wasn’t sure who -but he caught some of their conversation.  
One excitedly talking about an idea they had for something -Host guessed a show?- and hearing... hearing their conversation partner respond with the same excitement. With interest.

He bit his lip as hard as he could, feeling blood soak into his bandages.

It was fine.

He continued walking, quickly, nearly running. 

This wasn’t the first time it had happened, of course. He sometimes forgot himself, and started rambling about an idea he had had. He was always shut down. No one ever cared. No one asked questions, no one seemed the slightest bit interested.  
No one wanted to know about him. About the things he made.  
He didn’t know if he was just hated. Or if he was just too boring to talk to. Maybe rambling like he did when he got excited was bothersome. Maybe his hand flapping was annoying, or distracting.

He locked himself in his room when he arrived, whimpering as he curled up on the floor, shaking, as soft little sobs left him.

He just wanted to talk.

He just wanted to be creative.

But no one wanted to know.


	9. Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doing nothing

He feels like sobbing.

He feels like screaming.

He feels like ripping open his skin and watching his blood coat the floor, the walls, the ceiling.

He feels like stabbing himself, ramming a knife deep into his chest.

He feels like jumping off a ten story building.

He feels like drowning himself in a river.

He feels like overdosing on a cocktail of pills.

He feels like destroying everything he's ever created.

His chest is hollow. There is nothing there, but the void. A void of feelings, a void of frustration, a void of sadness, a void of tears.  
He sits, emotionless, doing nothing. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have a single though of his own, and so, he doesn't voice anything.   
Not that his words mattered anyways.  
No one would listen to him. No one would care about him. No one did care, after all. There was no one who listened to him talk. There was no one who was interested in his stories. There was no one who cared about what he did. He had no clue if anyone listened to his radio show, if anyone listened to his stories. He knew, _if_ someone listened, they didn't let him know. There was nothing, anywhere, for him to see they cared. No one wanted to interact with him, or try to. No one wanted to make posts about him, or his show, anywhere. No one seemed to care if he was there or not.

Maybe he'd stop.

Just for a while.

What was worse, after all?  
Doing what he _hoped_ would bring him joy, where he _hoped_ someone cared, without anyone _actually caring?_  
Or not doing anything?

He'd just... exist, for a while.

He'd just do nothing.

For a while.

Maybe someone would care, and ask about him.

Maybe,

he'd see no one would miss his presence.


	10. Nothing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing.

Nothing.

Why nothing?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing nothing nothing.

Every thing with a no.

Nothing.

No one.

He felt like he was obsessed with this habit.

Check if someone liked one of his stories.

Check if someone left a comment on his show.

Check if, check if, check if.

There was always nothing.

There never was something.

He browsed through his phone, looking at things to buy.   
Buy art of his characters, perhaps?  
Buy a new microphone?  
Buy this plushie?  
Buy this, buy that, buy anything or nothing?

Buying things always gave him some happiness. At least for a moment.  
The moment it arrived, after he's already forgotten he bought it.  
Opening a package to find something he liked.  
To then not have a use for it, so then his happiness would fade away again.

Into nothing.

Nothing.

Simply

Nothing.

All he wanted was one thing.

One thing would be enough for him.

One thing he could enjoy longer. One thing that could make him happy.

Just one thing.

Not nothing.

please


	11. One Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just wants one thing.  
Is that too much to ask for?

"Could the Host have something printed out?".

It had been one thing he wanted. He just wanted something printed out, and he never asked for things. He certainly never asked to have something _printed_.  
So he didn't understand how it could be so hard. Why he couldn't just have _one thing_.  
They had said five to ten minutes. It's been half an hour.

"Yea yea Evelyn, we'll get to it."

He hated being called that. Some stupid "joke". Because of his whole Author and Host being the same person thing.  
Like he wasn't his own person.  
Like he didn't have his own name.

Why couldn't he have _one thing?_

Why did no one care?

Was it that hard to call him by his name? The one he wanted to be called?  
Was it that hard to address him correctly? To respect him enough for that little thing?  
Was it that hard to do him one tiny favor? To give him one little thing he wanted?

Was it that hard to respect him?

Was it that hard to take him serious?

He just wants one thing.

Any one thing.

He didn't even care what it was anymore.

He'd take never getting any favors if they used his right name.  
He'd take getting a little favor and never being called by his right name.  
He'd take being addressed correctly even if he was never spoken to.

He'd take anything.

Any one thing.

Any one thing to stop him from sobbing, alone in his room, tearing at his hair, blood coating his face.  
Stop him from ripping his skin open and cover himself in more blood, get to feel something other than the agonizing feeling of no one caring.  
Stop him from screaming while no one could hear him, from breaking things just to let this horrible energy out.

Any one thing.

He'd take any one thing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tired.


End file.
